


What Comes Next?

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: (not endgame though), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Post-Movie(s), background Tilde/Eggsy, ktgc spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-01-08 18:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12259851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: After Poppy, Kingsman rebuilds.





	1. Searching

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to write regularly, so I've decided to do the Inktober challenge in the form of a series of post-K2 ficlets. Wish me luck!

It’s another cloudy day in London, and not for the first time, Tequila misses the sweltering heat that collected sweat underneath his hat, the scuffed jeans and stitched cowboy boots, the tangy barbeque sauce slathered over ribs charred just right, and even the dust that seemed to get into everything. But he swore Champ up and down that he’d help their British brothers to an easier transition.

According to Ginger—technically, the new Agent Whiskey, but Tequila’s mind still hasn’t caught up—Statesman is running smoothly in his absence. She’s training up her new successor, some hacker kid from New York—why are they always from New York?—and an assistant for Medical in case things go sideways down there and they need staff on standby. Whiskey—Jack—is in one of their cells, but not the padded kind—a full lock-and-steel barrel.

By contrast, though, Kingsman ain’t running the way it used to. The shop’s still in shattered ruins on Saville Row, while the secret passageways and mansion in the countryside are still knocked to rubble. The few who’d survived—Lancelot and the staff—had managed to keep the police from sniffing around too much, but for now, they’re assuming Kingsman’s somewhat blown and are acting accordingly.

Galahad Number Two—Arthur, now—gives them orders without the same easy confidence as Champ, but Tequila obeys them nevertheless. Whether Arthur needs him to woo another wealthy patron, to observe the workers laying down new foundations, to give an opinion on another blueprint, to go out on a quick jaunt to stop some local baddie, Tequila does it. He likes to keep busy, keep moving, a habit from his rodeo days that helped him stay alive as well. He supposes if he were arm-chaired, the doctor would connect it to his past drug use, keeping him wired and alert, twenty-four-seven.

He doesn’t mind at all, even if it borders on exhaustion. It helps to have company, too, with Lancelot and Galahad swooping around him and finding their footing with him. The first time he saw Lancelot, she was near-deaf in her left ear, with her shoulders and ribs busted, but Ginger helped fix her up good, and Lancelot has kicked his ass once during sparring—one more than Galahad—so she’s got his respect down pat. Galahad is still a bit wary of him—guess you can’t easily forget a guy threatening to roast your balls and shoot your old friend in one day—but seems to be warming up as the days go by.

Today, Tequila’s had time to quickly chat with Champ, who’s given him a status update on Merlin, still in recovery, and a few suggestions for Arthur while Tequila’s still stationed in London. The Scottish distillery is also coming along nicely, and Tequila’s already wondering what lucky agent will be shipped out to keep an eye on those barrels of scotch, only to have Champ shake his head and chide, “Tequila, boy, don’t you set your heart on it.”

Tequila bounds up the stairs of their temporary shop and headquarters, still nursing his slight disappointing to the point of nearly colliding with Lancelot on her way out the door.

“Hey, Lance, sorry,” Tequila says, with a wave and apologetic smile. “Is Arthur here? Champ sent me some messages I’m supposed to pass along.”

“He should be in his office,” Lancelot replies. She studies him, tilting her head before saying, “You’ll really need a pair of Kingsman glasses; they don’t go with your suit.”

“My wire ones?” Tequila adjusts his, frowning. He’ll look downright goofy in those thick tortoiseshell ones the Brits wear. “They’re classy.”

“That style died in the eighties.” She rolls her eyes, then jabs her thumb behind her. “Up the stairs, drawing room.”

“Ooh, drawing room, how pish-posh,” Tequila croons in his best British accent, and Lancelot gives him the familiar annoyed look he’s used to seeing from Ginger before pushing past him to get through the door. Chuckling softly, Tequila tips an imaginary hat to the old man working the counter—Andrew, he thinks—and takes the stairs up, two at a time.

Just as he’s raising his hand to knock, Tequila hears laughter, then Arthur’s “Eggsy, absolutely not.”

“Eggsy, absolutely yes,” Galahad replies, still laughing. “Give me a mallet and a few hours.”

Tequila can practically see Arthur shaking his head. “No, Eggsy.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s highly impractical and requires more than one person.” There’s a sigh. “How the fuck are we supposed to make a whole team do all that work in such a short time span to use the amnesia darts? How are we going to make sure the workers won’t talk about building a bloody lift that goes underground? How are we going to make sure the real dimensions and blueprints aren’t on any city database? Bribery alone can’t…” Another frustrated sigh. “God, what a mess, a fucking mess everything…”

“Here.” There’s a soft clink of glass, then wood scraping against more wood. “Harry, just sit and take a breather, okay? You ain’t alone in this.”

Tequila waits on the other side of the door as another sigh—but softer this time—issues, then a long gulp, presumably Arthur knocking back whatever Galahad poured. “God, Eggsy. I’m sorry. It’s…”

“Hey. Hey. This is all new for everyone. And look, you’re almost resting your head on your hand—how much sleep have you got again?”

“What does it matter? I haven’t slept properly since, oh, the early eighties.”

“ _Harry_.”

“I notice you haven’t been sleeping well, either.”

“Don’t deflect.”

“Since when do I do that?”

“Since you became a spy, most like.” Galahad’s voice lightens. “A real-life super spy.”

Arthur groans. “You heard that, didn’t you?”

“Glasses, Harry. Always turned on. Merlin drilled that into Rox and me first thing.”

“And how much will I have to bribe _you_ to not tell this to Roxy?”

“Who says I haven’t?”

“Eggsy—”

“All right, you got me. But I got a list of demands lined up.”

“Of course you do.”

His mama didn’t raise no fool. He knows what he’s hearing.

But Tequila raises his fist and knocks anyway. There’s work to be done, after all, and the sooner he relays Champ’s message, the sooner he’ll be able to get to another task.

Arthur calls him in, and Tequila strides in, hands in his pockets. He notes the way Galahad’s body’s leaning towards Arthur’s right side, how an empty glass is still clutched in Arthur’s hand, and how both of them have slowly turned away from each other’s faces, expectantly looking his way.

“Hey, boss,” Tequila says, without so much of a hint to what he’d just overheard. “Just wanted to pass along a few things from Champ…”


	2. Barefoot

“Seriously?”

“Why not?” Roxy says, with a shrug. She waves the paper in front of them, and Eggsy leans over his peri-peri chicken to read the gold, cursive font. “This thing’s going to expire anyway, and we don’t have time for a full spa experience, so let’s just all go and each get something small.”

“I still can’t believe you nearly get taken out by a missile and your parents just send you some flowers and a gift certificate,” Tequila dryly notes, taking a bite out of his pulled-pork sandwich with a disappointed grimace.

“To be fair, they thought I was in a horseback riding accident,” Roxy replies, though Eggsy still doesn’t know how stupid her parents are, exactly, or if they just pretend like they have no clue what’s going on to save their sanity, like his mum. “Nice of them to come in person this time and not the maid.”

She then falls silent, and Eggsy remembers who would have visited her if her parents couldn’t make it. Percival, who’d stepped in when her parents never did, believing in her when no one else gave a shit. Percival, who’d proposed her for Lancelot and had been one of the only agents to take both of them in hand after V-Day. Percival, who’d been swallowed up by the flames and might of one of Poppy’s missiles that terrible night, recuperating from a brutal mission at home.

“I’d like to tag along, Rox,” Eggsy says, with a quick squeeze of her hand across the table, which she returns. “Never been to a spa before.”

“Shoot, I will,” Tequila volunteers. “Could do with some R&R.”

Roxy smiles at them gratefully just before their glasses chime with another message from Harry, and all of them sigh and begin to pack away their half-eaten lunches.

Well, back to work.

* * *

 

When night falls, they head over to the spa, Harry staying behind to go over some logistics with the Scottish distillery. Eggsy’s a bit disappointed Harry can’t come—hell, he needs some relaxation—but little can persuade Harry away from work these days.

With Roxy’s certificate credits, each of them get a soak in the hot tub full of mineral water—whatever that exactly is—along with a half-hour massage and pedicures. Eggsy’s sure that the number slipped to Roxy by the giggling clerk is proof that they threw in a few extras, but he’s not complaining, especially when once they step into the bubbling hot water, an attendant comes over with an offer of champagne.

“Why not?” Roxy says, then looks at them. Tequila readily agrees, and Eggsy nods. Why not, right?

“I can pay for mine,” Eggsy says, once the attendant walks away.

“Oh, fuck off, Unwin, this is a treat. You can pitch in for something for us to eat after this.” Roxy closes her eyes and leans her head back. “God, this is nice.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says, already a bit blissed out. The jets pound gently against his sore limbs and back, and when he closes his eyes, there’s nothing but soft music playing with the occasional chatter from the next tub.

“I got to say, this is the best spa I’ve been to,” Tequila says, looking around at the blue and white tiles and the low-lit atmosphere, complete with some tea candles placed carefully near the tubs, along with some folded white towels with gold monograms.

Personally, Eggsy thinks any posh place in London has to beat Kentucky’s, but keeps his mouth shut.

“Did you have one at…work?” Roxy asks, ever mindful of the public eye.

“Yeah, good place, ‘cept since Ginger was mostly the only staff, it doesn’t get used that often.” Tequila stretches out his limbs, sighing. “You?”

“Ours was nice,” Roxy replies, and both of them exchange a look—another thing to be built. “But it was small, just for recuperation with some physical therapy.”

“Ginger says Merlin’s enjoying ours,” Tequila says, eyes closing.

“Good, he needs it,” Roxy says, and Eggsy can’t agree more. “I’m happy he’s coming back soon.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees. Inside, he still feels that pang of guilt in his gut—if only he’d fucking paid more attention to his fucking minesweeper. He still remembers Merlin dragging himself through the blood-splattered dirt and into the tiled floor of Poppy’s Diner, obviously in pain but half-jokingly telling him and Harry to stop crying and help him. His limbs had been a horrible, gory mess, and it took a lot of effort not to gag when they rewrapped them on the blessedly sterile plane.

He’d tried to apologize when Merlin woke up from surgery, but Merlin waved him off. He never said soothing lies like _it wasn’t your fault_ or explicitly blamed him, but Merlin seemed to enjoy Harry’s company more than his while they were recovering briefly in Kentucky. Eggsy can’t blame him. If it weren’t for his stupidity, Merlin would have both legs and be home with them.

When the champagne arrives, Eggsy downs it in one go, ignoring Roxy’s and Tequila’s looks and staying silent until their time in the tub runs out.

They all get seated in some comfortable chairs as attendant kneel to start massaging and primping their feet. Roxy, of course, is as poised as ever, while Eggsy has to fight off bursts of laughter whenever someone grazes his arches. Tequila, meanwhile, rebuffed the massage portion, saying that a bubbling water tub would do better.

“Ticklish?” Roxy asks, grinning.

“As a bull in a fly pen,” Tequila replies, and Eggsy tries hard not to smile.

“Color, miss?” one of the attendants asks Roxy, pointing to an array of nail polish, stacked up in pyramids on small, silver tables.

“Yes, please,” she says, then points to a bright red bottle.

“You, sirs?”

“ _Me_?” Tequila asks, laughing.

Roxy bristles. “Yeah, why not, cowboy?” She raises her eyebrows, something that never fails to make the object at the receiving end slowly back away.

“I dunno, it’s just…” Tequila laughs again, this time, a bit more self-consciously. “Never thought about them. But if Eggsy does it…”

"Why not?" Eggsy retorts, never failing to back Roxy. Hell, he'll get daisies on his big toes; his sister will love them, and maybe he'll learn how to do them if she wants them, too. 

Tequila rolls his eyes. "Fine, y'all've talked me into it." He scans the brightly-colored bottles with the same seriousness as searching the room for a mark. "How's about our colors? Black and gold?" 

“Classy,” Roxy proclaims. 

“Glad to have the lady's approval,” Tequila says, with a mock tip of an imaginary hat. “The gentleman's?”

“Stole my color scheme,” Eggsy jokes, “but fine. I'll just get, I dunno, blue with a daisy pattern.”

The attendant nods and goes to ring up their order, and Tequila wiggles his toes, cocking his head as if picturing them painted already.

Roxy smiles and reaches out to touch Eggsy’s arm. “I’m glad you made it. I don’t think any of the others would have done this.”

“Wh—Jack wouldn't have,” Tequila comments, then winces. Everyone goes quiet, even Roxy, who only knows the bare minimum of what Whiskey tried to do.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Eggsy finally says. He doesn’t like to think of Whiskey, his electric lasso coiled around Harry’s neck, demanding to be given the case to let millions die.

“Well, he’s…” Tequila shrugs. “Set in his ways,” he finishes, staring fixedly at the floor.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says softly and exchanges a glance with Roxy. He knows deep in his bones that they’re ride-or-die for each other, that Roxy will never stab him in the back like Whiskey did, that he’d shoot himself before doing anything to hurt her. “I’m sorry, bruv.”

Tequila just shrugs and calls one of the attendants forward, tone falsely bright as he says, “I think I would like another champagne, please.”


	3. Warmth

“How are you doing today?” Ginger asks.

“Well enough,” Merlin says, and it’s true for the most part—no nightmares, no pain. There’s still that jolt of waking up and getting ready to climb out of bed, only to realize that he has to push the button to alert Ginger, who will lift him into a wheelchair and help him get ready for the day.

It’s really the part about being so dependent on someone that he dislikes. He’s never realized how much he’d taken walking for granted, and all the jokes about dying in his chair behind a desk that he and Harry used to laugh over a bottle of scotch make him crave that bottle. Merlin knows that it’s not the end of the world, of course—he’s alive, for one, and cognizant, thank God—but he’s already tired of all the fundamental changes these past two years. He kept Kingsman together for decades, then watched it fall apart, then managed to scrape it back together after V-Day, then all of his work his work and most of his colleagues go up in flames.

He’s felt demoralized, has coached others through those same stages, but it’s still hit him harder than he could have imagined. His stumps still burn with the agony of muscles and bone being ripped away with a blast, Kingsman is far more damaged than it has ever been in its long history, and he’s very, very acutely aware that he could have died. As soon as he’d accepted the proposal to join Kingsman, Merlin knew there was a danger, but to be so close, to be out in the field, to be standing on top of a landmine and waiting for those guards to come just close enough so the blast would take them out—

But he meant what he’d told Eggsy and Harry. He was ready. He’d accepted it. Even when the blast had dumped him on the ground, bleeding and burned, he’d been prepared. Even while wrapping what he could and dragging himself to find Harry and Eggsy, he’d been prepared. Even when they’d opened the doors of the plane and Statesman medical immediately scooped him up to be taken into surgery, he’d been prepared.

And now, nothing. He was going to live. He was going to have to live, and to be honest, that almost scared him.

Ginger smiles at him, despite the dark circle around her eyes. “I think we’re ready to test out the final models today.”

Merlin sits up. His stumps itch; they need lotion and ointment and disinfections, but he doesn’t care about any of that now. “We are?”

“Yes,” she says, then hands him her tablet. The blueprints are there, designed by both her and Merlin when he wasn’t out of his mind on Statesman morphine. Merlin’s eyes trace over them for the last time, approving, allowing himself to feel a bit of pride on what they worked on together.

After the usual morning routine and a tasteless breakfast, Merlin sits on the edge of one of the hospital beds while Ginger expertly puts them on, swatting away his hands when he tries to help.

“How do they feel?” Ginger asks.

“They feel…” Merlin looks down at them. They look and feel nothing like human legs, cool and solid underneath his hands, dangling lightly over the bed. He knows he won’t be able to stand on his own, not yet, but it seems much more possible now. “They feel good,” he ends up saying.

Ginger gives an approving nod. “No itching? No stiffness or pinching?”

“None,” Merlin says.

“Good,” Ginger replies, looking at her tablet. “This one’s controlled by microprocessors and powered myoelectrically, but a bionic option is available for more precision, possible additions. But now, simple is best. When you get used to it, we can add more features.” She smiles wryly. “Tequila suggested lasers. Harry suggested cavities to hide flash drives and such. Eggsy, well,” her brow furrows, “he said something about a woman with blades for legs?”

“Long story,” Merlin says, trying to imagine himself vaulting and spinning as expertly as Gazelle. Little chance of that. “But I’ll stick with what I have for now.”

“I do have to tell you all the specifics before we can attempt more intensive physical therapy,” she says, somewhat apologetically. “Even though you’ve probably gone over this hundreds of time.”

Merlin nods. He knows the routines, has had to give some of the talks himself: how to clean the socket, how to manage the prosthetic socks, and how to deal with perspiration and friction and phantom pain and contractures. There will be more physical therapy: standing, balancing, stretching, and enduring. For the rest of his life, he’ll go to bed and take off his legs, then carefully attend to his stumps, washing and drying and dusting with talcum powder. There will be parallel bars and crutches and canes, learning how to walk again on floors and stairs and hills—not like there are a lot in Kentucky or in London to begin with, a frustrating amount of energy than before.

“…Merlin?”

He realizes Ginger’s been speaking for a while, wincing at his rudeness. “I’m sorry, Ginger, just…lost in thought.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I shouldn’t,” he says. “They don’t pay you enough to be a therapist.”

“Consider this free of charge,” she says, reaching behind her to pull up a chair, “as a friend.”

Merlin hesitates. “I…” There’s so much to say, so much Ginger doesn’t need to be burdened with. She’d given him projects while his stumps were shrinking—hacking through various firewalls, designing his legs, examining their gadgets, even handling small missions. Sometimes, he’d even helped train Ginger’s replacement, the familiarity of instruction allowing him to ground his thoughts and take him out of his head for a while. Merlin also talks to Roxy occasionally, less to Tequila, and often to Harry, giving him advice about Arthur’s position and fending off questions about his health.

He hasn’t spoken to Eggsy, though, and Egsgy hasn’t tried to contact him. _He feels guilty_ , Harry simply said, and Merlin doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know how to get Eggsy to speak to him, something they'd have to talk about when Merlin gets back home.

Home.

Merlin looks at Ginger. He knows that the Statesman eagerly offered aid to Kingsman, some of which Harry has stubbornly refused, pride and unwillingness to allow Kingsman to be beholden to an outside agency warring within him. He also knows Champ had offered Harry and Eggsy Whiskey’s seat before Ginger volunteered. An option to stay here and take up Ginger’s mantle is open to him—to a thriving secret intelligence agency, not a broken one.

In his heart, he knows the answer: no. Kingsman is his life. Kingsman is tied to him as much as he’s tied to it. How can he not return?

He ends up saying, “It’s just a lot to think about, going back to London.” Merlin stares at his legs, swinging them briefly back and forth and imagining the hinges creaking. “I helped build Kingsman, and to see it in this state…” He hesitates, then shakes his head. “I should be there. I’ve always been there.”

Ginger nods. “Keeping this whole thing afloat sometimes—it’s too much. I know as a secret intelligence agency, we have to rely on as few staff as possible, but…well.” She shrugs helplessly. “It’s a triumph to be able to hold so much of this in your hands, but it’s a burden to do it mostly on your own. Holding up the sky.”

She understands, Merlin realizes, even more than Harry, someone he’s known for decades.

“Have you thought about it?” she asks. “Being just a field agent? Even once?”

“I did,” Merlin admits, “when I was younger, especially with Harry—he made it look so fun.” He sighs. “We were very young and ready to take on the world with our bare hands. And well, you don’t get credit most of the time as…someone behind the scenes.”

Ginger nods, a trace of bitterness across her face.

“But now, I...I love being behind there. I can’t imagine doing anything else,” Merlin concludes.  

Ginger nods. “And Kingsman will be better for it.”

"And Statesman with you," Merlin says. 

"Yes," Ginger says, smiling a bit nervously. "I just have to qualify for field tests and then...well, it'll be different, answering to Agent Whiskey." 

Merlin has questions about what Statesman's going to do with Jack, but he senses it's one of the things Statesman doesn't even know what to do about. Harry and Eggsy had done an unusual thing, bringing him back, but their official reason was so they couldn't get into trouble with killing a foreign agent. Merlin senses there's more to that, but so far, both of them had been mum on the issue. 

Now, Ginger's standing up, tablet back in her hand. She holds up her left arm, bent at the elbow. “Let's try walking down the hall today and do some exercises in the training room. And if you do well, we can take a jaunt to the local KFC." 

Merlin smiles, feeling ridiculously happy over such a small thing. He also refuses to consider it has to do with the possibility of taking Ginger's arm. "You mean it?" 

"Of course," Ginger says, beaming back. "But after that, it’s back to your regularly scheduled diet.”


	4. Compliment

The walls are mostly bare, with only one small painting of a sailboat hung just to the right of one of the bookshelves. They and desk and cabinets take up most of the room, one drawer partially open with manila folders stuffed with papers. Outside, rain patters steadily down, and Roxy glances down at the umbrella laying just at her feet. The secretary had offered to take it, but Roxy wasn’t taking any chances on her pushing the wrong button and firing projectiles into one of the walls.

Besides, Kingsman agents are always prepared. What happened recently only made it even more paramount.

She’s just thinking about pressing a finger to her glasses, ready to alert Harry that she might run late to their meeting when there’s a knock on the door, and quickly stands up to shake hands with Mr. Hassan, nails perfectly manicured and palms slightly dry. His hair’s cropped close to his head, almost all grey, and his glasses—thin-framed and gold—sit slightly crooked on his nose. 

“I apologize for my lateness, Ms. Morton,” he says. “I’m afraid my last client took up more time than I thought. Did you have to wait long?”

“No, not long,” she replies, and he nods, placing the briefcase—leather, dark brown, gold clasps, and a combination lock, with four numbers—on his desk. It’s the same sort of thing she sees in almost every office—heavy, polished wood with a few photographs, a mug full of pens, a closed agenda, and a few scribbled notes.

“Water?” he asks. “Tea? Coffee?”

“None, thank you,” she says. “I apologize for rescheduling our appointment so much.”

“That’s no problem,” he replies, then sits down, unlocking his briefcase. _5-3-8-5._ Probably a birthday—she notices he’s wearing a ring. His wife’s? Or perhaps, his kid’s? “Here we are.”

Roxy nods mutely, watching as he turns the first page of the packet towards her. She fights the urge to clench her fingers into the knees of her trousers or pick at her nails, only looking at the words typed so neatly, so plainly.

THIS IS THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ALASTAIR MORTON.

The next ones only come out in fits and spurts: _trustees, Roxanne Morton, wish to be cremated, James, including my wedding ring, legacies, estates, executed as a deed by,_ followed by a scrawled signature. How can just a few pages sum up her uncle’s life, so neatly, so coolly? How long had he planned all this? When he received his trust fund? When he got to Kingsman? How much did he have to change his wishes, come to this office, sit in the same chair?

“Ms. Roxanne Morton, you are the sole heir to Mr. Alastair Morton’s properties and finances,” Mr. Hassan is saying, but everything seems to be moving beyond her. She can only keep staring at _Last Will and Testament_ , _Last Will and Testament, Last Will and Testament,_ repeating over and over like some strange spell, _come back, come back, come back_. _I need you, I miss you, I love you. I’m sorry I’m the only one left._

He would have left half to James, she knew, if James hadn’t died in Argentina. They never recovered his body, and already, a sense of failure sinks into her stomach at his request, _mix my ashes with James_. He never wanted to be buried in one of the Morton plots, never wanted a headstone surrounded by weeping angels, never cared for the family name, part of the reason why she loved him because she never did, either. No, she did, but he had made her understand that she wasn’t just a Morton, didn’t have to be just that; she could be Roxy—not Roxanne—too.

She wants him, wants James, wants any of them to hold her hand as the solicitor points at the different words, reading them out loud like a primary schoolteacher or one of her nannies, the one who was the one to realize Roxy wasn’t just reciting the words, that she actually understood them.

Roxy remembers signing this, too, only a year ago after V-Day. She’d worn a Kingsman suit, hair loose around her shoulders, watching Alastair as he limped slightly down the halls from his mission in Belize. Even then, the full weight of what she had done hadn’t hit her, even when she set down the pen, and it never quite hit. That evening was going to be her first joint mission with Bors, and her mind had been solely on her role, rebuttals to potentially sexist comments, Merlin’s files, and the blueprint of the target’s mansion.

A small burst of anger overtakes her as she wordlessly signs the document again. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fucking fair. Harry and Merlin and Eggsy came back fine; why wouldn’t Percival have? She’s the one who had a fucking missile dropped on her room in the manor, the room that had been converted to a bomb shelter since the Cold War. Why the fuck did Kingsman not do the same for their agents’ houses? Or the shop, too? Were they that cocky, that careless, that forgetful?

She feels herself shaking Mr. Hassan’s hand again, picking up her umbrella, going to the door, nodding to the secretary, pressing the elevator button, stepping inside. Her eyes are quickly watering, hands shaking, chin trembling, and she bites down hard on the inside of her cheeks, _stay calm, stay calm, stay calm._

By the time the elevator doors open on the first floor, Roxy’s expression is perfectly still. Her nose is red, according to a reflection in one of the windows, and her eyes are slightly watery, but there are no tears. Every bit of hair is in place. Her suit isn’t even rumpled.

Her glasses chime, and she carefully blinks a message to Arthur before stepping outside, raising the umbrella over her head.

* * *

 

Stepping into this office is always a bit of a shock. Although she had only been a Kingsman for about a year, she’d quickly gotten used to pushing open the heavy, wood-paneled door and seeing Merlin on the other side, tablet in hand, standing near the screen above the fireplace. The Round Table—which was never round, much to Eggsy’s consternation—always had a file laid out in front of them like a placemat, along with some tea and biscuits.

The previous Arthur spookily looked like Chester King, and she always caught Eggsy eyeing him during those first few months. She wondered what it must have been like for both of them—Eggsy sitting to the right of the king whose predecessor he’d killed, the one who tried to turn him against the world and who tried to kill him once Eggsy refused. _Maybe Galahad ain’t the right title for me,_ Eggsy had joked, a bit morosely. _What was that bloke? Mordred?_

Eggsy’s not sitting across from her, though, and there’s no Merlin. Tequila isn’t here, either, just her and Arthur. Part of her is relieved so she doesn’t have to navigate through concern or curious glances. With her and Arthur, it’s duty, and she needs that now.

“Hello, Lancelot,” Arthur says. Roxy’s only heard about him through Eggsy and occasionally Merlin, and still, she can’t get used to calling him by his name. It’s always been codenames in here, in this temporary office that’s routinely swept for bugs. “We will have to deal with more investors, I’m afraid.”

Roxy nods.

“Tonight, you and Galahad will be attending a gala,” Arthur says. “It’s a mingling of the Berry Brothers and Rudd, along with a few other alcohol suppliers across London. You two will not only be promoting the Statesman and Kingsman whisky, but also reaffirming and establishing new business contacts.” He nods at the file, and Roxy opens it to reveal a profile of a middle-aged man, looking away from the camera. He has a slight scar running down his neck—from V-Day, most likely. “In addition, this man might attend with his wife.” Here, Roxy turns the page to see an elegant woman with a pearl necklace wound around her throat. “Statesman asked us to keep an eye on this couple.”

Arthur’s lips turn slightly down at the corners. Roxy knows from what she’s gathered from Eggsy that Arthur’s not too happy with outside influence within their organization—and Eggsy isn’t, either. She knows about the cell and the former Whiskey’s betrayal, but all secondhand.

Admittedly, she likes the Statesman, even Tequila with his swaggering cowboy act and drawling accent, but can see why Arthur and Eggsy are wary—and it’s personal for both of them.

 The couple, a team of biochemical engineers, she finds out, might have been helping Poppy with the antidote. It’s only a suspicion, but to not follow it up could be dangerous. They may have been coerced, forced, or willingly eager to work with Poppy; no one quite knows, so Kingsman and Statesman must find out in order to know how to deal with them.

“I understand,” she says, once Arthur’s done speaking. She scans the details of the party, the schedule, and the blueprints of the house. “Does Galahad know yet?”

“I debriefed him this morning,” Arthur replies, then silence falls between them, both of them remembering the reason why Roxy was absent.

She takes a deep breath. If she doesn’t say this, she might never get to it: “I want Kingsman to have my inheritance.”

“Lancelot—”

“No,” she says, not allowing Arthur to interrupt. She can’t stop now. “I don’t need it. Not really. I’ll take my uncle’s personal effects, but no other. Kingsman can have the properties, the money.”

“Lancelot—”

“I am the heir,” Roxy finishes, words hanging heavy between them, a finality.

Arthur looks at her from across the table, and for the longest time, seems as if he wants to say something. But he only nods, standing up and extending his hand. “Thank you.”

She takes it, squeezing once and letting it drop, and then, scooping up her file, turns to leave.

“Roxy,” Arthur says, and she turns around again, startled. “I have been thinking that we should have some sort of ceremony to honor those…who passed.” He continues, voice filled with sincerity. “Alastair was a friend of mine for many years, and James, as well, but I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

Her throat tightens, and she wordlessly nods, focusing on the teapot on the Round Table—fragile porcelain, plain, white, a tiny jam smudge on the handle.

“He would be proud of you,” Arthur continues. “Merlin told me of your dedication and success after V-Day, and we all know what you did after Poppy’s missile. Without you and the staff, we wouldn’t have had anything to come home to.”

Roxy nods again. The past few weeks where she had been alone have been pushed to the back of her mind—the panic when she realized she was almost deaf in one ear, the crushing pain of her ribs and shoulders and arms, the nightmares of fire and rubble, the steely but numb determination to find who was left. She’d been too afraid to call Eggsy and Merlin at first—the threat of compromised identities and the fear of them being dead delaying it—but she had managed to get into contact with Amelia and establish a miraculous connection amongst keeping the authorities and journalists away from the mysterious series of destroyed houses and the Savile Row tailor shop enough to figure out a cover story.

Pride and sadness tangle up in her all at once, and she has to take a few deep breaths to thank Arthur without a tremor in her voice.

“Thank _you_ ,” Arthur repeats again, then nods. “If you need some leave, you can request it.”

“No, thank you,” she says. “I’d like to just…push on.”

Arthur nods, and understanding passes between them before Roxy turns away for the last time and pushes open the door, hand reaching to her glasses.

As always, it’s time to go to work.


	5. Fallen

They’re having breakfast when Tilde gets an alert on her phone.

She immediately clicks on the link, which takes her to a brief about her upcoming visit to one of the hospitals with the blue rash victims. Although the antidote cured everyone of the disease, there were still recovery efforts—physical therapy, mental trauma, bedrest. Tilde had visited multiple hospitals and memorials, gave a short speech about compassion and ending the stigma on drug users, kept an ear out on the emergency gathering of the UN, tweeted the American President, and had dozens of plans whirling in her head before the blue rash set in.

And that was it, wasn’t it? The blue rash.

Everyone knows about who got the blue rash. Some have gotten fired over it. Some have been put on watch. Some have become martyrs or public figureheads for either side. There have been trends on social media, speeches by politicians and special interest groups, legislation being drafted or discussed, and multiple articles. Oh, yes, there was Poppy, the impeachment process of the President, and the mystery of figuring out who managed to release the antidote, but the aftermath…

And of course, the comments. Long ago, she learned not to Google herself, and so far, her PR team has been good; none of her exploits have made it into the tabloids. For years, she had been the beloved Crown Princess, heir to the throne, always ready with a smile and a favor. It was only logical Valentine gravitated towards her in hopes of having her follow his mad plan.

 _Leaves the country for a year and gets the blue rash,_ someone’s saying, with a link to an op ed about various powerful figures with the blue rash. _Is this really our heir?_

Normally, one comment will not be a cause for concern. But there are others—more and more questioning her leadership skills, her commitment to Sweden, her mental capacities.

And this will not do.

“Tilde?” her mother asks. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine, Mama,” she says, putting her phone face-down on the table. She can deal with this. It’s frankly a miracle her parents haven’t gotten wind of this, but they’ve also been swamped with the mess and their upcoming diplomatic missions.

“Was that Eggsy?” her father asks, with a slight frown creeping across his face.

Tilde tries not to wince, knowing where this is going. “No, Papa.”

“You should think about introducing…Eggsy to the public,” he continues, “unless you two are not…”

“Papa,” Tilde says calmly. “Eggsy is committed, and I trust him.” It’s something she’s been parroting for the better part of the past few months, something that’s becoming thinner and thinner over time. There was already the fumbled excuse about Eggsy having a wireless phone in his ear and getting an urgent call about the shop at dinner, and that was after the constant explanations of why Eggsy couldn’t come to Sweden to meet them—not to mention the months-long argument about living with him in a foreign country.

On the surface, she knows it looks bad: her boyfriend being flighty and inconsistent—but more seriously: he never visited her when she had the blue rash. But she could hardly tell her parents, _Look, Mama, Papa, Eggsy isn’t a tailor. He is an international spy. He hasn’t abandoned her; he’s just saving the world right now._

As far as they know, he has only visited her once and vanished again for a “tailor emergency.” They keep in contact through FaceTime and text, but so far, his “lack of commitment,” as her father keeps saying, doesn’t reflect well on him as a person or as—well. That’s a whole other issue, isn’t it?

“Have you talked about this?” her mother asks, and Tilde resists the urge to sigh. Of course. “Marriage?”

“No,” she lies. There’s no use in bringing up Glastonbury; the ugly, hissed argument; the stonewalling; and the turn to a few weed smoking sessions.

There’s a note of reproach in her father’s voice: “Tilde…”

“Tilde, we are only thinking,” her mother begins, and Tilde’s had enough.

“Mama, Papa, I have to go get ready for the hospital visit,” she says, standing up. “If you excuse me.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, only snatching up her phone and leaving, nodding to the guards on the way out. Walking through the halls, her face projects neutral calm, but inside, she’s simmering like a kettle set to boil.

Finally reaching her rooms, Tilde shuts the door behind her and begins to change into a more somber ensemble, nothing too formal to set her too far apart from her people. She glances in the mirror, face pasty from a lack of sleep, with dark circles, and sighs, reaching for the bag on the table when her phone begins vibrating.

Immediately, she jabs at the ANSWER button, smiling at the familiar face on the screen.

 “Eggsy!” she exclaims, spirits already lifting.

“Hey, babe,” he says, waving. He’s wearing those tortoiseshell glasses and pinstriped suit—definitely working today. “Just checking in.”

“Could be going better,” she admits. “You?”

“Rebuilding one brick at a time.” He laughs slightly. “Today’s pretty busy, but I got a bit of time to pop down to the corner for lunch. Where are you off to?”  

“Hospital visit,” she replies, reaching for her foundation and beginning to pat it on. “Then a few meetings and an interview and, oh, a one-on-one meeting with the Prime Minister.”

“Not the dickhead?”

“ _Eggsy_ ,” she scolds, but still smiles. “Still keeping an eye on him, but he doesn’t seem the type to allow worldwide genocide. He’s actually supporting the legalization of marijuana.”

“Is he?” Eggsy yawns, then shakes his head apologetically. “Sorry, babe, three hours of sleep. You wouldn’t believe how irritating the, uh, shop rebuilding is. Harry’s ready to tear out his hair, be as bald as Merlin.”

“Harry,” she echoes, putting down her foundation and quickly glancing in the mirror, snatching a mascara tube from her bag. “I’d still like to meet him, actually. When are you two free?”

There’s long pause, then a sheepish, “I don’t know, Tilde.”

“That busy?”

“Yeah, you know…” There’s guilty pause. “But I swear you’ll meet when things cool down around here. It’s just hectic. Maybe you can come down to London?”

“I don’t know if I can at the moment,” she says. “But maybe…”

Eggsy looks at her, bemused. “What?”

“Well,” she begins, a bit anxiously, “I was wondering—as was Papa—if you’d be able to come down to Sweden sometime.”

“Another dinner?” Eggsy asks nervously. He looks around, as if ready to ask for help. “Guess I should improve my Swedish, yeah?”

“That might be useful,” she says, turning away from the screen to snatch a few clips out of a drawer, slipping them into her hair. “But not for dinner, Eggsy. For a…uh, public event.”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. “Tilde—”

“It would be a good idea to introduce you to the public.”

“My job…” He begins, but it’s starting to sound like the one at Glastonbury, and both of them are not eager to rehash that. She still doesn’t look at the screen, determinedly staring at mirror, fiddling with earrings to give her something to do with her hands.

“Right,” Tilde finally says. “I told him that before, but…well.”

She doesn’t know what to say next. She knows what she can say, of course—about that proposal.

In those terrifying few days, she had been paralyzed, but not totally unaware. While she was standing there in her pyjamas, phone still clutched so tightly in her hand that no one could pry it from her fingers, she could hear her parents murmur reassurances, consult doctors, and occasionally mutter prayers. There was another layer to their worry, of course. They loved her, they did—but she was their only child, their only heir. What would the succession be? What would happen if she—all the training, preparation—died?

But she also heard Eggsy, too: his panic, his fear, and his frantic proposal. Only a few weeks ago, that would have been everything she wanted to hear. But now, Tilde isn’t too sure—not about the sincerity, but about the timing—if she hadn’t been on the verge of dying, would he have eventually offered again? Was he really willing to give up the job he loved to be a prince of Sweden?

She’d been meaning to bring the proposal up again, but a whirlwind of things happened all at once after Poppy’s death and the antidote being released—and Eggsy didn’t bring it up, either.

But somehow, it won’t come out. In part, she understands. It’s a big sacrifice. But at the same time, she feels as if Eggsy being a spy and her being the heir to the throne have parallels. Sometimes, the job was unpleasant, and it was nice to retreat to a familiar, domestic corner where nothing on the outside could touch them.

But sometimes, it was— _is_ —their life’s blood. Walking away from it is unthinkable, not just because of duty and honor. She loves helping people, trying to make her country better in the ways she can, and she knows Eggsy feels the same way as a Kingsman.

Tilde looks into the mirror again. She sees a solemn young woman, ready to go out and perform her duties, and knows if she looks down at the phone, she’ll see the same thing with Eggsy.

“I just…” Eggsy’s now saying, stumbling over his words. “I don’t know if I can do that just yet, Tilde. I’m sorry. And my schedule…everything is so chaotic. You know I love you, but I don’t—I want more time to think about it, but…I don’t know; I—”

 _I followed you to Britain,_ she wants to say. _I lived with you for a year, and that was one of the best years of my life. But I’m still the Crown Princess of Sweden, and that will never change._

_The question now is…if you will change, too._

“Eggsy,” she says wearily. “You’re not just dating me. You’re dating Sweden, too.”

“Tilde—”

“I have to go, Eggsy.” She hangs up, and takes a slow, steadying breath, ignoring the series of buzzing. She has to think. She has to—

There’s a knock on the door.

 “Crown Princess?” someone asks, and she takes a deep breath before peeking through the peephole and opening her door. Filip is there, tablet in hand, standing there politely, waiting for her. She remembers telling Eggsy about him, her schedule-master, and Eggsy had laughed, shaking his head. _Sounds like Merlin._

“You have the visit in twenty-five minutes, Crown Princess,” Filip continues. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I’m ready.”

Without a glance at her phone, Tilde slips it into her pocket and steps out, locking the door behind her.


	6. Water

Harry’s just signed another budget report when the door opens.

It’s Eggsy, dressed in a somber dark coat and neatly-pressed trousers. His eyes are red and shadowed with dark circles, stumbling into the room without his usual grace or swagger. His hair’s plastered to his forehead and neck from the rain pouring steadily outside, with no Kingsman umbrella in sight.

“How was it?” Harry asks softly.

Eggsy shakes his head and heads straight for the table. “I came to debrief,” he says tonelessly. “Tomorrow’s surveillance, yeah?”

“You didn’t have to come tonight,” Harry says. He wants to call for a cab and send Eggsy home, but hates the thought of Eggsy lying in the dark, alone with his thoughts. Even at the newfound confidence Harry had observed in these past months, Eggsy’s still too quick to blame himself and to nurse the guilt for too long. He still can’t talk to Merlin—something they need to discuss—and looks at Roxy as if he still believes she’s dead. Every discussion of the rebuilt shop and manor has a certain distance to it, as if Eggsy’s trying to separate himself from the earlier destruction.

Eggsy shakes his head again. “I can’t…I couldn’t stay.” He wordlessly sits down at his usual place at Harry’s right hand. “That was shitty of me, wasn’t it? Leaving like that.” Before Harry can respond, Eggsy wipes an arm across his face, voice tight with emotion: “Brandon got killed because of me. It’s my fucking fault. I should have—”

“You didn’t know about the missile,” Harry gently interrupts. “How could you have known? Even Merlin didn’t detect—”

“I know that!” Eggsy snaps, then jerks his head downwards. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I…”

“There’s no need to apologize.” Harry reaches out to touch Eggsy’s arm, ready to pull away if needed, but Eggsy doesn’t move, still staring down at the table. “No one knew, Eggsy.”

“Yeah, I fucked everything up, didn’t I?” The next words burst out of Eggsy, bordering on hysteria: “The arm in the cab, trusting Whiskey, _Merlin_ …”

It’s hit Harry before this, the realization that his old friend could have died that day, on the way back to Kentucky, or in surgery, but the ache still lingers in his chest. He can hardly imagine a world without Merlin more than anything else, having taken Merlin’s safety behind a desk inside the Kingsman manor for granted, and knows that the other knights felt the same. Merlin was their pillar, the foundation of Kingsman, and it was no surprise, even after a short time, that Eggsy had come to rely on Merlin as strongly as he did.

“I know you and Merlin were close,” Harry begins. “And he doesn’t blame you, Eggsy. He doesn’t. He knew the risks—”

“That still doesn’t make it right!” Eggsy protests.

“But it’s true,” Harry says. He hates to sound so cold, but it’s the reality of being an agent, the slow acceptance of an inevitable end in the line of duty. “What happened has passed. Merlin is alive and will be back in London soon. He’ll carry on with his usual duties with the help of Ginger—and of course, us.” He keeps his hand on Eggsy’s arm.

“It’s still my fault,” Eggsy says, not looking at him. “Don’t try to act like it wasn’t.”

“What do you want me to do?” Harry asks.

The bluntness startles Eggsy enough to make his head jolt upwards. “I…I don’t know,” he softly says.

“You want blame,” Harry concludes. His tone is harsher than he’d like, but he has to make Eggsy hear this. “You want me to punish you, perhaps? If this was in a normal time, if I were acting as Arthur, I’d likely bench you and put you in charge of Merlin’s recovery. But as we are in rather dire straits, I can’t afford to sideline you, and I already know you will help Merlin when he comes back.” He takes away his hand from Eggsy’s arm. “I am not going to punish you because you’ve been doing that for months.”

Eggsy opens his mouth, but Harry beats him to it: “I can’t stop you, of course. But your efforts are better spent rebuilding Kingsman, something Merlin has taken care of for decades. Guilt is a natural part of this life, but the world needs us to take action.”

Harry watches as Eggsy seems to take that in, then continues, “You’re a good man, Eggsy. You saved the world. And me.”

“That was Tequila and Ginger,” Eggsy points out. “But yeah, well, I…wasn’t exactly very nice about getting you back, was I?”

“Nicer than a few of the other attempts,” Harry says dryly. The puppy has a home with Harry, even though he doesn’t do much more than feed it and take it for occasional walks, sometimes Eggsy doing it for him if he can’t leave the office in time. He feels guilty, of course, but selfishly appreciates what little unconditional companionship he can get in the chaotic days.

“Yeah,” Eggsy agrees, bitterness entering his voice. “Like when they tried to fucking drown you.”

Harry decides not to mention the other one, the one with the horses. “Yes, and it turns out Statesman has the same water test,” he says calmly. “You would have passed, too, Eggsy. They encourage the breaking of the two-way mirror.”

“Statesman isn’t exactly my type,” Eggsy mutters.

Harry had been too startled back then when Champ offered them a spot at the open Whiskey position, but it had all passed by quickly with Ginger’s self-nomination, but now, he wonders what would have happened if either of them had accepted. Harry wouldn’t have, not willing to stay in Kentucky more than he had to. If Eggsy had left—

But he will, most likely, Harry reminds himself, even if it’s not right away. Eggsy and Tilde may have a future together, and that future will not be in London—certainly not with the union of a Swedish Crown Princess and a member of an independent spy agency.

Eggsy’s now looking at him, a bit guiltily, and for one, silly moment, Harry fears that Eggsy’s guessed his thoughts. But Eggsy only says, “I should go back, shouldn’t I? Finish paying my respects.”

“I cannot object to that,” Harry says. “Would you like to move your debrief to the afternoon?”

“No,” Eggsy says. “I won’t let you down, Harry. I’ll be there at the time I promised you.” He then shifts in place, clearly waiting for something. Instead of pushing it, Harry only waits, and it doesn’t take long for Eggsy to finally blurt out: “I was wondering if…I could leave Brandon’s family a favor.”

This is slightly unexpected. “A favor?”

“Like…” Eggsy pulls his collar down and fishes out the medal Harry had given him so long ago, shining pink and gold underneath the dim lighting. Harry’s still surprised he has it, even more so that Eggsy’s still wearing it around his neck.

It’s his turn for guilt to sink deep into his bones, and for all his talk with Eggsy, this is something Harry will never quite forgive himself for. Like Merlin, Lee knew the risks, but it doesn’t change the spiral of events that led to his widow and only child being under the thumb of a thoroughly unworthy substitute for years.

Merlin accepted his part of the blame, too, as did James, but Harry couldn’t help but put the responsibility squarely on himself. He had picked Lee as a snub to Arthur and the snobbery of Kingsman, so confident in his success that he barely spared Michelle and Eggsy a thought. Lee had paid the price for his pride, and so did Michelle and Eggsy—

“It might not be traditional or anything,” Eggsy’s now saying, still holding the medal gently between his fingers, “since Brandon wasn’t related to me or anything. But he wouldn’t have been—wouldn’t have ended like that if it weren’t for me. For Kingsman. I don’t know how else to try to make it right.”

It only takes a moment for Harry to make a decision: “Come here.”

From the polished cabinet, Harry takes out a decanter. It’s not the same hundred-year-old brew, of course, but it will serve its purpose—hopefully, not for a long time after this. He pours out a measure for Eggsy, then himself, and pushes the glass towards Eggsy.

Eggsy stares at it, expression filled with astonishment and hope. “Does…but he…”

“He may not have been a Kingsman, but he was a dear friend of one,” Harry says. He holds up his own glass. “To Brandon.”

Eggsy’s throat visibly tightens. “To Brandon,” he echoes, before clinking his glass against Harry’s and drinking.


End file.
